


Minutes

by mirlotta



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, iwaoi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirlotta/pseuds/mirlotta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa gets stood-up on a date, but luckily Iwaizumi's around to be her stand in. It's only a joke after all, right? Right?</p><p>OR</p><p>Oikawa and Iwaizumi do lots of typical date stuff and it all goes wrong until their relationship goes right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

It has been seven minutes, forty-three seconds, and Oikawa is sick of waiting.

He sighs heavily, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. He isn’t used to this. Maybe for someone as uncouth as Iwaizumi , this hold-up would be nothing more than the status quo… But for Oikawa? For Oikawa, this is unthinkable.

He’s never had to wait this long for a date before.

He’s never had to wait _at all_ for a date before.

Normally, whichever girl he’s going out with will arrive at least twenty minutes earlier than Oikawa does- and _normally_ , the girl will also have some sort of edible gift ready (and sometimes, she’ll even be clutching a marker-pen so that he can sign her boob). That’s what Oikawa and his near-celebrity status have grown to expect, and what his ego is beginning to tell him he deserves.

So, you know. Oikawa’s been waiting almost seven minutes now, and it’s a totally unexpected delay.

And, the thing is, Oikawa never likes to deal with surprises.

Above him, the first flake of snow peels itself from the November sky. The breeze snatches at it jerkily, the time it takes to hit the ground as prolonged and impatient as Oikawa’s waiting- and by Oikawa’s standards, he’s been waiting a long, long time. He shivers dramatically inside his oversized jersey, pouting upwards at the silvery expanse of cloud. He wishes that he could unravel all of that silver and use it to pay time to hurry up and go faster.

Oikawa’s groan rips from his throat loud and undignified. What are the chances of anyone hearing him, after all? The streets, unfortunately, are utterly deserted.

It’s been fifteen minutes, and not so much as a text from the girl who just yesterday professed her ‘undying love’ for him.

  _Ugh._ Oikawa’s starting to wish that he’d never even bothered to ask her out. It was all only courtesy, anyway. Oikawa can’t stand refusing confessions, but he’s grown accustomed to letting the girls down gently after a date or two.

_It’s not your fault, whoever-chan. It just wouldn’t be fair if we went out and then I spent all my time with the team instead of you._ And then he’d blow a kiss, or something. Whatever works.

What was this girl’s name, anyway? Oikawa can’t quite remember, although it skirts around the doorway of his memory like a taunt. Noriko? No. That was the girl he took out _last_ week. But he knows the name begins with an ‘N’. Nagisa? Not quite.

 Oikawa wonders whether the cold is freezing up his brain and making him stupid.

He fumbles through his pockets to pull out his phone, searching for the girl’s name in his contacts.

_Nao-chan_! That was it. Oikawa’s expression sours, his shoulders hunching up to kiss his ears.

No new messages from Nao-chan. Even a ‘sorry I’m late’ would be welcome. Even a ‘sorry I’m late’ would be _common human decency._

It must have been at least twenty minutes of waiting, it’s starting to snow, and Oikawa’s pretty sure these are ample enough reason to bail on a date. And even if they’re not, he’s telling himself they are.  He barely even knows Nao-chan, anyway. He had to remind himself of her _name_.

There’s only one thing for it.

The snow is painting the pavement the same translucent nothing of words whispered by long-married couples who don’t really love each other anymore. Oikawa’s lips are blue, the hairs on his arms are standing up, and if he doesn’t find shelter quickly then his new trainers are going to be ruined.

He needs a lift somewhere warm, and quickly.

Oikawa attempts to ignore the way the frost is bleeding his fingers white and struggles to input Iwaizumi’s number.

He picks up after the second ring, and Oikawa almost feels like Atlas- only, instead of stumbling under the weight of the sky, he’s stumbling under a great big suitcase full of gratitude. Say what you will about Iwaizumi, but he’s reliable. He’s reliable, and he’s helpful, and he’s _always there_ for Oikawa.

Sometimes, he wonders whether Iwaizumi has even noticed how much Oikawa needs him.

“What is it?” snaps Iwaizumi, and his irritated tone of voice is like the one, constant star that hold Oikawa’s whole universe together.

He takes a deep breath, and begins. “Okay, first of all, you must absolutely not breathe a _word_ of this to Makki. Or Mattsun. Or anyone. Promise?”

Oikawa swears, he can practically hear Iwaizumi rolling his eyes at the phone. “Spit it out, Stupidkawa,” he drawls, like he’s heard it all before.

He _hasn’t_ , either. Oikawa’s never, ever been stood up on a date before, and that’s what makes this whole thing so annoying. He hates surprises, especially the kind that come in the form of your date disappearing without a trace before she’s even arrived, leaving you freezing your butt off in the snow. It makes it seem as if Oikawa’s the one who actually _cared_ about this date, rather than Nao-chan.

And that’s exactly the sort of thing that Makki and Mattsun would celebrate like an early birthday present. Three months’ worth of teasing, just from Oikawa waiting half an hour for a girl that never arrived.

Oikawa ruffles his hair, wondering whether he can hide his pride beneath it. “No, _seriously,_ Iwa- _chan_. You have to promise. Promise you won’t tell Makki or Mattsun?”

“You’re like a six year old,” mutters Iwaizumi, but he grits his teeth and gets on with it. “Fine. _Fine._ I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” says Oikawa, and takes a breath. “Nao-chan stood me up on the date.”

“Who?” Iwaizumi’s tone is incredulous. “Wait a second, wait a second- a girl _stood you up_? _On a date_?”

Oikawa moans. “Do I need to tell you twice? It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s _brilliant._ What does she look like? I need to find her at school tomorrow so I can ask her for her autograph.”

“Iwa-chan,” whines Oikawa, but the familiar patter of insults is already cheering him up. “May I remind you that you’ve literally only been on three dates in your life, and one of them was with a volleyball?”

“I was drunk. That was one time.”

“Excuses, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa laughs, and then remembers why he phoned. Conversations with Iwaizumi have a habit of spiralling rapidly off track- and Oikawa likes that, usually, but right now he has to concentrate all his persuasive skills into this request. “But, whatever. There are more important matters to attend to- like, I’m freezing, and it’s snowing, and I seriously could do with a lift.”

“ _Ugh_ , Shittykawa. I’ve only just got out of bed.”

“At half-eleven? You’re a savage, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa shudders without meaning to, the cold sinking underneath his skin. “Please?”

Iwaizumi sighs. “A lift where? Home? Or do you want to come over my house for a bit?”

Oikawa pauses, just for a second. “Um… Actually, Iwa-chan, I was thinking of finding myself another date.” He can feel himself blushing, and he hates himself for it. “I don’t- you know, I just don’t want to arrive home early and have my parents find out that Nao-chan ditched me so heartlessly.”

“Trashykawa, seriously, where the _hell_ are you planning to find a date? It’s Saturday and snowing and everyone with a brain is still staying warm and sleeping. Which, by the way, is exactly what I was doing before you decided it’d be a great idea to come wake me up.”

Oikawa pouts for the five seconds it takes for an idea to come to him, at which point his expression eases out into a smirk. “Unless…”

Iwaizumi’s answer is slicked back in wariness. “I’m warning you, if you’re suggesting we do something stupid again like-”

Oikawa’s grin is now fully formed, splintering across his face with the same reckless abandon as if the sun was blistered and smashing forwards against the sky. “So, Iwa-chan,” drawls Oikawa, suddenly feeling the cold just a little less, “how would you like to be Nao-chan’s stand-in and go on a date with me?”

There’s a long silence.

“Um. I don’t. I don’t have to dress up as her or anything, right?”

“Nope,” says Oikawa. “Come as yourself. We can just imagine that you’re Nao-chan.”

“Right. And. If we go somewhere to eat then you’re buying all of it, and it can’t be milk bread.”

“ _But-_ ” starts Oikawa. “Come on, that’s cruel, Iwa-chan!  I’m sure that _Nao-chan_ eats milk bread.”

“Then she’s disgusting and has no functioning taste buds. Like you.” Iwaizumi laughs, just a little. “Come on, Shittykawa, the no-milk-bread rule is my big condition.”

 “ _Fine_. But you totally owe me.”

“Um, no. You owe _me_ ,” says Iwaizumi, and then he laughs and then Oikawa laughs and if they were face to face instead of on the phone, Oikawa thinks he might have hugged him there and then from relief.

“Makki and Mattsun absolutely cannot know though, okay?” reminds Oikawa.

“What’s there to know? Nao-chan bailed on you – finally taking a stand for all the girls you’ve toyed with over the years – and now I’m filling in for her. As a joke. Right?”

“Right,” says Oikawa, though something inexplicable inside of him had thought, for a second, that it was maybe a little bit more than just a joke. “We can watch a movie together, and go out for not-milk-bread, and-”

“You know what?” says Iwaizumi. “The thought of a date with you is starting to make me feel a bit sick, Trashykawa.”

“ _Iwa-chan_!”

“Joking, joking.” Iwaizumi speaks again, and his voice is just a tiny bit gruff. “I’ll pick you up in a couple of minutes. Just text me the name of the street.”

“Iwa-chan,” sighs Oikawa. “My saviour.”

“Alright, alright. Just text me the street name.”

“Seriously, Iwa-chan, I could easily fall in love with you,” Oikawa tells him, and it’s too loud and too ridiculous for Iwaizumi to ever believe it.  

And though it’s fleeting and too-quick and if he blinked, he’d miss it, Oikawa wonders for a second what would happen if Iwaizumi really took him seriously. If Oikawa said that he loved him, and Iwaizumi said it back.

They’ve been best friends for years and years and years, and they’ve never ever seriously said the words.

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

The letters jumble and scatter and go round and round and round in Oikawa’s head, dancing to a tune that he only halfway recognises.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which my fluffy hopes for this story diminish slightly. Enjoy!

“So…” says Iwaizumi. “This is how you make girls fall in love with you. Take them to out-of-the-way backstreet coffee shops and-”

“Then, if I kill them, no one will hear them scream.” Oikawa winks, poking his tongue out. “It’d be a crime to let anyone prettier than me go on living.”

“Idiot.” Iwaizumi laughs.

They’re crammed together in an independent café that can only be described as ‘poky’, and Oikawa’s knees keep knocking against Iwaizumi’s beneath the table. The table itself is low and wooden, with endless stories dried up across its surface and disguised as coffee rim-stains. Despite himself, Oikawa feels comfortable in this place, or maybe that’s just because Iwaizumi is with him.

Iwaizumi nods across the cafe. “Just because I’m Nao-chan’s stand-in doesn’t mean you’re going to make me hold your hand though, right?”

Oikawa laughs and pretends to be hurt. “People would pay to hold my hand, you realise? You’d be privileged!”

And then he sees who Iwaizumi was looking at. There’s a gay couple – two guys, probably somewhere in their thirties – sitting holding hands at the other end of the shop, and Oikawa keeps finding himself staring no matter how many times he tells himself it’s rude. It’s rare to see people so outwardly gay in Tokyo, let alone somewhere as banally mundane as Miyagi prefecture.

Seeing them together– one small with glasses, the other with dyed blonde hair and a sneery expression- it makes Oikawa wonder how they met or whether they’ve known each other all their lives and how they ever became anything more than friends when being in a same sex relationship is still mostly just something you read about in books imported from America.

Oikawa wonders, fleetingly, what it’d be like if he was _really_ going out with Iwaizumi. He imagines ruffling his fingers through dark, spiky hair, kissing each other in secret before volleyball practice and not really caring whether the team found out as long as they had each other. He imagines sweet perfume and soft lips and smooth skin… And that’s not right, that’s not right because Iwaizumi doesn’t wear perfume and hasn’t shaved in at least a week and _Iwaizumi is not a girl_.

Oikawa shouldn’t even be thinking about this. This date is just a joke, after all. Just something crazy, silly, funny- something that they can joke about in years to come, when they’re married with wives and three kids each.

And yet, here he is, wondering what it feels like to kiss his best friend.

“Is kissing a guy the same as kissing a girl?”

Iwaizumi looks at him with raised eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders. “How the hell would I know, Crappykawa?”

 _Shit_ , thinks Oikawa. _I said that out loud._ He swallows his blush and tosses his hair nonchalantly, gesturing at nothing. “Well, I mean, you’ve kissed a _volleyball_ before. It’s hardly out of the question to assume you’ve kissed a guy.”

Iwaizumi looks around furtively. “Keep your voice down!” he hisses, and then he kicks Oikawa underneath the table. Hard. “I was drunk, all right? Can you stop bringing that up, already?”

“Honestly,” pouts Oikawa, his heart still pounding beneath his sweater. “Don’t go in a mood with me, Iwa-chan. Just because I’m prettier than you doesn’t mean you have to be so mean all the time.” He twirls his spoon between his fingers, pausing as it points at Iwaizumi. “I was just wondering.”

“Well, don’t.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, following Oikawa’s gaze back to the couple at the other end of the coffee shop. They’re leaning into one another, obviously in love. “I’m straight.”

There’s a silence. It’s awkward, more awkward than Oikawa’s felt with Iwaizumi in… Shit, in _forever_.

Oikawa sips his caramel latte and starts to wish that he’d never invited his best friend to be his stand-in date. He waits too long for the conversation to seem in any way coherent, and then sniffs. “Of course you’re straight, Iwa-chan. Otherwise you wouldn’t get so frustrated every time you broke up with a girl.”

“Yeah,” says Iwaizumi. He claps Oikawa across the back, who doesn’t try to hide his wince of pain.

Across the shop, a waiter’s approached the couple, leaning back against their table as if he intends to stay there a while. Oikawa frowns, and when Iwaizumi starts to say something, he cuts him off. “Shhh. The gay couple. Listen to what the waiter’s saying.”

Iwaizumi is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head in irritation. “I can’t. What’s he saying?”

Oikawa scrunches his face up into an imitation of the waiter’s disgusted expression. “’Next thing you know, people will want to be dating their dog. Or are you two gentlemen just good friends?’”

The waiter bows to the couple, but it’s mocking and almost scrapes the floor. When he raises his head, he smiles at them, as if he’s telling a funny joke. “People like you are disgusting creatures.” He proclaims this so loudly that even Iwaizumi can hear, who widens his eyes slightly as the couple get up and leave without a word.

Oikawa feels something more potent than anger bubble up from the pit of his stomach, and he feels his lip curling in distaste. “Wonderful customer service,” he mutters under his breath. “That bow was… something.”

 Iwaizumi nods. “What an asshole. I should spike a volleyball at his head.”

Slowly, Oikawa’s scowl smooths into a cruel grin. “Or…” He shrugs delicately, purposely not looking at the boy sitting opposite him. “We could do something that would _really_ piss that waiter off.”

“No,” says Iwaizumi immediately, folding his arms. “Absolutely not.”

“You’ve not even heard what I’m going to say yet!” Oikawa pulls a face. “Don’t be so mean, Iwa-chan.”

“Fine,” Iwaizumi sighs, rolling his eyes. “ _What_? But your ideas are always stupid.”

“I’m going to ignore that last comment, Iwa-chan, because this idea is stupendous. You’re my stand-in date, right? Right. So what do people on dates do? Hold hands, sit way too close together, etc, etc. And what does that waiter hate? Guys who do all that together. Especially if we don’t leave the restaurant like that couple did, and-”

“Like I said,” Iwaizumi cuts in, “it’s a stupid idea. I told you before, we are _not_ holding hands.”

But Oikawa looks at him and Iwaizumi gives in, because Iwaizumi can never really say no to Oikawa.

“Let’s get this over with,” says Iwaizumi, his voice so gruff that it’s barely distinguishable. Quickly, his hand darts out and closes around Oikawa’s above the table. Iwaizumi looks away, blush seeping up to kiss at the tips of his ears.

It’s just as well, really, because that way he doesn’t see Oikawa catch his breath despite himself. He doesn’t see the way Oikawa’s mouth parts just slightly in a breathy kind of unspoken wonder, and he doesn’t see the glance Oikawa gives him from beneath his eyelashes that conveys so much more affection than Iwaizumi thinks him capable of.

He isn’t sure why he feels like this, because he’s sure he’s never felt like this with Iwaizumi before.

Or maybe he just hasn’t noticed.

Oikawa swallows.  “My, Iwa-chan, you’re going all red. Is it that hot in here, or do you really just like me that much?” His voice is shaky and not quite all there, but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to notice.

He practically growls, his hand shaking around Oikawa’s. “Shut up, Shittykawa.”

“Iwa-”

“I don’t feel like punching you _quite_ so much when you’re not speaking.”

“Ouch. If I was any less self-confident, that might have wounded me.”

But in truth, even Oikawa is feeling nervous about holding onto his best friend’s hand like this. Even _if_ they’re the only customers in a very out of the way coffee shop, because the one other person in said café apart from them is an increasingly scary-looking homophobic waiter.

Oikawa wiggles his fingers up and down nervously, trapped in Iwaizumi’s grip. He edges his thumb around and around Iwaizumi’s palm in a circle, brushing skin against skin and trying not to think about how _firm_ Iwaizumi’s grip is, and how much Oikawa _likes_ that.

“Stop that.”  Iwaizumi kicks at him under the table almost at once, scowling.

“Stop what?”

“That… whatever you’re doing with your hand. Against mine. It’s…” Iwaizumi trails off. “It’s… Distracting.”

“Oh.” Oikawa does it again, and laughs to make it a joke. Iwaizumi doesn’t stop him, this time.

They sit together for what feels like minutes stacked on minutes stacked on minutes until the waiter comes over to take their order. He raises his eyebrow and stares pointedly at their locked hands.

“It seems,” drawls the waiter, his eyebrow sliding up and under the greasy locks of hair that fall into his face, “it seems that you’re everywhere, today. I swear I just saw you leave here a few seconds ago.” He stops and grimaces in cold disgust, tilting his head to study Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

Oikawa gives the waiter his sweetest smile, the one he usually reserves for psyching out idiot first years like Kageyama before a match. “If we’d seen each other before, I hardly think we’d be seeing each other again in a hurry. Your face is putting me off my coffee.”

Opposite him, Iwaizumi has gone totally stiff, his hand clamped around Oikawa’s so hard that his knuckles are bleeding white. He’s too strong for his own good, and always has been.

“Oh, sorry,” says the waiter, who is not sorry at all. “My mistake. You’re different people after all. All you faggots look the same to me.”

“That’s funny,” says Oikawa, leaning back in his chair, “because I’m sure there’d have been riots by now if there were multiple people as pretty as I am.” He squeezes Iwaizumi’s hand imperceptibly, because it’s all he can manage right now as an apology for such a stupid idea.

Oikawa isn’t used to explaining himself to people.

He isn’t quite sure why he was so eager to piss the waiter off in quite this manner, but for some reason, the thought of Iwaizumi’s hand in his had-

Oikawa shakes his head. _No._ He’s pretending to be in love with Iwaizumi because he wants to annoy the asshole waiter, and that. Is. All.

He tilts his head backwards, sizing the waiter up. “Wait, hang on, maybe I recognise you after all. Sorry, you just look _exactly_ like this gay porn star I saw online the other day. So, is being a dumbass waiter just your part-time job, or-”

The waiter steps closer intimidatingly, his jaw tight. “Say that again, you piece of shit.”

“What? The bit about you being a gay porn star, or-”

“ _Say that again_!” And suddenly the waiter is up in Oikawa’s face, his fingers curling into fists. Oikawa’s hand doesn’t leave Iwaizumi’s, and he ducks as the waiter makes as if to punch him.

Oikawa coughs, ignoring his thumping heart and rolling his eyes. He tuts across the table at Iwaizumi. “ _Savages_. Everywhere, aren’t they?”

“Get out of this shop,” says the waiter. “Get out.”

“Not until I get compensation for you almost ruining my face,” says Oikawa, but he knows he’s pushing it too far when the waiter balls his fists up once more, his face splotchy and purple and shaded in with every type of rage. Oikawa winces and braces himself and knows that he does not have time to move out of the way, trapped in his tiny corner seat.

So he holds onto Iwaizumi’s hand and waits for the inevitable impact. That’s what he does.

And then he isn’t holding Iwaizumi’s hand anymore.

Oikawa looks up at his best friend, who’s stayed silent throughout this. Oikawa looks up at his best friend and sees his face contorted with anger and hate as he smacks the waiter with the same spike he’s used against so many rival teams in the past. He looks up and hears the guttural ferocity that forces its way up Iwaizumi’s throat, the vehemence with which he defends Oikawa.

And it’s strange, but Iwaizumi, fighting like this for Oikawa’s sake: it’s so beautiful.

Funny. All these years, Oikawa’s been the pillar of the volleyball team without really thinking about who he’s been leaning on.

But it’s Iwaizumi. Of course, it’s Iwaizumi. It’s always been Iwaizumi.

They catch each other’s eye, and Oikawa looks away.

The waiter roars in an ugly fury, thrusting Iwaizumi aside and coming back with the manager- who, really, should have been the person that Oikawa went to see in the first place, instead of pressuring Iwaizumi into holding his hand. (But despite it all, really deep down, he knows that he doesn’t regret it.)

“Your waiter needs to be fired,” Oikawa tells the manager, before thrusting money for their coffees down on the table. “And we’re sorry for the mess.”

Iwaizumi’s bright red again as they bow their way out of the door, and he takes Oikawa by the collar of his shirt once they’re halfway down the street. “I told you,” he says, his voice monotonous. “Your ideas are always stupid.”

“Generally, my dates are less eventful,” Oikawa concedes, biting his lip before hurriedly correcting himself. “Fake dates. I mean, generally my fake, stand-in dates are less eventful. Not that I have many of those. Or, really, any. Before this, I mean.”

“Yeah,” says Iwaizumi, and Oikawa thinks he’s going to hit him or be mad or _something_ , but then he laughs. “Man, though, did you see that guy’s face when you answered him back? He went fucking _purple_! I didn’t even realise that was possible.”

Oikawa laughs alongside him, the sound breaking from his mouth like stained glass, shattering itself across the horizon. “Well, Iwa-chan…”

“What?”

“I think you were purple that time you were kissing the volleyball, though. You were _very_ drunk.”

And Iwaizumi bashes Oikawa over the head, but it’s friendly, and it’s normal, and Oikawa can almost pretend that he never felt like he felt when Iwaizumi held his hand. He never felt that rush of pure elation and he never felt that embarrassing guilt that should never have existed because holding hands with Iwaizumi doesn’t. Mean. Anything.

Oikawa can almost ignore it all. Almost. _Almost._

But then Iwaizumi asks him, “So, what else were you planning on doing on your date with Nao-chan apart from attacking an idiot waiter, Shittykawa?” and Oikawa can’t help but imagine them ice skating and watching movies and having snowball fights and sharing food and kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing and-

 _Stop._ He has to _stop._

“Oh,” says Oikawa, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know.” He smirks at Iwaizumi. “I’m a _gentleman_ , Iwa-chan, and usually I let the girl decide.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “As long as we’re not holding hands again.”

 _If only_ , thinks Oikawa. _If only._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoops, we're back to fluff again. (*' '*)

When Oikawa doesn’t look where he’s going and falls head-first over a handmade plaque advertising a street wide snowball fight, he and Iwaizumi take it as a sign. Sure, this probably isn’t where a date with Nao-chan might have ended up, but they’ve known each other so long that neither boy even needs to speak to affirm that this is where they’re going to spend the next few hours.

“It says we’ve got to sign up at the Tetsuro residence,” reads Iwaizumi, and Oikawa elbows him.

“Iwa-chan! You didn’t tell me you knew how to read!” He laughs to hide how mean he feels, when all he’s been doing since the incident in the coffee shop has been making snide comments to Iwaizumi. Honestly, Oikawa thinks he’s being so sharp to avoid properly thinking about the kind of things he really _wants_ to say to Iwaizumi. The thing is, though, how can he tell Iwaizumi that he thinks he loves him, when Oikawa can’t even really accept it himself?

At least snowball fighting, they probably won’t have to talk that much. And that way, there’s so much less chance of Oikawa ever giving himself away.

That’s one thing that he’s decided on, at least: Iwaizumi absolutely cannot know how he feels about him. Not when there’s such a high chance that he’ll never feel the same way; not when he’s so positive he’s straight, and Oikawa’s becoming more and more unsure.

“Weird,” Iwaizumi comments, as they approach the address scrawled on the sign as the Tetsuro’s. There are no cars in the drive, and the snow sleeps spread eagled across the front lawn, so deep that a person could hide his dreams beneath it. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s in.”

“Maybe the snowball fight’s already started,” says Oikawa, and does his best to cover up his disappointment.  “It’s a pity- but probably lucky for you, anyway. I’d have beaten you by so much, you’d have been begging for mercy.”

“Beaten me?” Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t we have teamed up?” It’s unspoken, but Oikawa still hears the next words, ringing in the aftermath. _Don’t we always team up_?

Yet here goes Oikawa, trying to push his Iwaizumi away because he can’t quite cope with the longing to be more than just best friends.

“Um,” says Oikawa, and for once, he’s at a loss for words. Iwaizumi looks at him expectantly, raking a hand through his spiky dark hair- and Oikawa has this stupid, insatiable urge to throw in the proverbial towel right here and now and let Iwaizumi and the whole world know that he’s gorgeous and talented and brave and his eyes are the same black that rims the full moon and his skin is soft and perfect as infinity.

But Oikawa doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. “Um…” starts Oikawa, again- and then he doesn’t say anything as a heap of snow hits him square on the mouth. He staggers back and falls to the floor over-dramatically, spitting out the cold like you might a nasty surprise.

Iwaizumi turns, mouth slightly open in shock (and god, is it a sin that Oikawa wants to kiss it closed?). Half hidden under all that snow heaped up on the Testuro’s front lawn are two boys that Oikawa recognises from volleyball- one the Fukoradani ace with the ridiculous hair, and the other the Nekoma captain.

“Surprise!” shouts Fukoradani, and high fives Nekoma. “That was your initiation into the street wide snowball fight. Your sign up – or whatever we called it on the sign-thingy – your sign up is complete.”

Nekoma stands up from out of the snow, shaking it from his clothes. “We were beginning to think no one was going to show up. Bokuto was practically crying from disappointment.”

“Shut up!” shouts Bokuto, and pulls Nekoma back down into the snow. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that!” he hisses, and Oikawa supposes that he’s not meant to hear- as unlikely as it seems when Bokuto’s ‘hissing’ sounds really more like yelling into a megaphone.

He coughs. “I’m Oika-” he starts, but Nekoma cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I know who you are. From volleyball. I’m Kuroo and this is Bokuto and-” He breaks off, staring at Iwaizumi. When he speaks, his tone is hushed. “No way.”

Bokuto looks at Iwaizumi, then back at Kuroo. “What?”

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” says Kuroo, as if that clarifies everything.

“ _No_ way.” Bokuto’s mouth hangs agape, and 1) it’s kind of annoying and 2) Oikawa starting to get a bit miffed that he’s not getting the attention he’s used to. Bokuto nods enthusiastically, as if he’s not quite sure what Kuroo’s on about, but is planning on going along with it anyway.

“Wha-” begins Oikawa, but Kuroo waves a hand impatiently. He and Bokuto emerge from the snow and take turns pushing each other out of the way to shake Iwaizumi’s hand.

“It’s an honour, Iwaizumi-senpai,” Bokuto tells him, Kuroo nodding his head earnestly. Iwiazumi looks at Oikawa helplessly, shrugging.

“Um… Wha-” starts Oikawa, but Kuroo cuts him off, _again_. Oikawa’s starting to hate the guy. Aoba Josai had better thrash Nekoma in volleyball.

“Shhhh,” whispers Kuroo. “This is a sacred moment. We’re shaking Iwaizumi Hajime’s hand.”

“Um… What are you doing?” asks Iwaizumi bemusedly, and Oikawa can’t fail to notice that Kuroo lets _him_ finish speaking. “How the hell do you know me?”

“You’re legendary, Iwaizumi-senpai,” breathes Bokuto.

Oikawa would be the first to admit that Iwaizumi is amazing at volleyball, but neither of them are used to people congratulating him with quite such reckless admiration. Usually, if anyone, it’s _Oikawa_ who receives all the compliments.

“Ah,” says Iwaizumi, and he turns the same colour red as the sunrise. He’s not used to this kind of attention. “Um. Why?”

Kuroo looks at Oikawa pointedly. “There are rumours that you’ve managed to put up with Oikawa for years, and haven’t even tried to murder him once.”

Bokuto nods in agreement. “Truly legendary.”

Oikawa squawks indignantly. “That’s not a wise thing to say when we’re about to have a snowball fight. If I hadn’t gone into volleyball, I’d have had an Olympic career in throwing lumps of snow at my enemies.”

“Hmmm,” says Iwaizumi, kicking snow at Oikawa’s feet teasingly. “It _is_ impressive that I’ve gone so long without getting sick of you.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes and pretends to faint. “Now even you’re against me, Iwa-chan? So cruel!”

And Iwaizumi laughs, but Oikawa can’t help but stare at him out the corner of his eye and wonder whether Iwaizumi really does find him that annoying. “It’s hard for people with as many flocks of admirers as I have to remain so humble and charming _all_ the time,” he pouts, knocking his shoulder into Iwaizumi’s. Even that one touch is enough to make Oikawa shiver- and it isn’t because of the cold.

Kuroo pretends to scan the horizons. “What admirers, Oikawa-san? I don’t see any around here.”

Oikawa scowls and reaches to scoop snow into the palm of his hand. It’s freezing without any gloves- his fingers are numbed almost instantly, their nails bleaching the same white as sea foam or school shirts or clouds on a sunny day. There’s no time to think about this now, though- before anyone can react, Oikawa hurls the snowball into Kuroo’s face where it splatters out in satisfaction.

Oikawa laughs delightedly, tipping his head back. “You deserved that.”

“Nuh-uh! You did not just snowball my bro when the fight hasn’t even officially started yet!” Bokuto shakes his head in a mocking state of aghast. (Actually, Oikawa privately thinks it doesn’t look much different to his usual owlish expression. Or maybe that’s just him being biased because Bokuto called Iwaizumi ‘senpai’, but not him.)

Iwaizumi smirks. “Bro?”

Kuroo splutters, wiping snow from his mouth in indignation. “It’s us against them, my Bokubro.”

Oikawa can’t help his cackle. “ _Bokubro_?”

He stops laughing when Kuroo aims a snowball at his head, only narrowly missing when Oikawa ducks out of the way. Iwaizumi yells at him to run for cover, and they trample through the snow as fast as they can, adrenaline propelling them forwards. Oikawa stops behind a dustbin, gesturing to Iwaizumi to crouch beside him.

“We can ambush them from here,” Iwaizumi whispers, and Oikawa nods, helping him to scoop and stack snowballs.

“Exactly what I was thinking… my Iwaizumate.”

Iwaizumi sprays snow in Oikawa’s face, trying to supress a grin. “Don’t even go there, Shittykawa.”

“Iwa-chap?”

“Oikawasshole.”

“Ouch. A low blow, Iwaizumofo.”

“That barely even work- Shhh. They’re coming.” Iwaizumi has three snowballs ready in his arms, the smile across his face as huge and colourful as if he regularly bathed in water sourced at the beginning of the rainbow.

Somewhere down the street, Kuroo is chanting ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ to the tune of ‘All the Single Ladies’. Oikawa puts a finger to his lips, signalling at Iwaizumi to slowly edge forwards.

All of a sudden, Kuroo’s singing cuts off. “Aw, no fair, right, Bokuto? The enemy are hiding behind their home.”

Oikawa looks to his right and sees the dustbin they’ve stopped behind. He rolls his eyes. “They’ve spotted us.”

Iwaizumi nods. “Only one thing for it.”

They run from behind the dustbin together, as a team, snowballs heaped up in their arms. Iwaizumi throws first, and it hits Bokuto on the side of his head. Oikawa yelps in the kind of excitement that you can’t supress, nodding at Iwaizumi in encouragement.

Bokuto and Kuroo are ready for them, though, and surge forwards, feet sinking deep under the soft snow. There’s a flurry of shrieking and giggling and beautiful, flaking snow, Oikawa dodging and ducking and twirling around snowballs as if he’s caught on the wind. He finds himself back to back with Iwaizumi, frost obscuring half his vision as Kuroo sets snow to land on his head and drip cold, icy kisses down his back.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi are winning, but just barely.

They shout triumph to each other between gasping, panting breaths, advancing as Bokuto and Kuroo are pressed backwards to the Tetsuro home. While Bokuto and Kuroo have a rapidly depleting stash of snowballs (mainly because of Bokuto’s reckless panicky throws that never seem to hit anything), Oikawa’s power and Iwaizumi’s aim are resulting in a more and more obvious outcome to this battle.

Bokuto turns to Kuroo, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “This is the end of the line for us, Tetsubro.”

“It’s been a nice life, bro. But it’s been made nicer because you’ve been in it.”

Bokuto clutches at his heart, ignoring the couple of snowballs which tumble out of his arms. “ _Bro_!”

Oikawa smiles in anticipation as Iwaizumi curls his arm back to throw, his muscles hard and defined. And then, as Bokuto and Kuroo brace for impact-

Iwaizumi slips, face planting the floor.

Bokuto cheers, clapping his hands together in victory as Kuroo pelts the fallen Iwaizumi with snow. Oikawa bends down to help him up, dropping his snowballs as he does so- but Kuroo turns on him before he can haul Iwaizumi to his feet, advancing on Oikawa. He stumbles backwards through the snow, leaving a messy trail in his wake as he frantically scrabbles at the ground to make more snowballs- but his numbed fingers just don’t seem to cooperate, and now it’s Bokuto and Kuroo against him, two on one, and-

Iwaizumi rolls between Oikawa and the others, grabbing his hand. They don’t have the time or the energy to speak- and so Iwaizumi gets to his feet and then they run, giddy and panicked and out of breath. They collapse not too far away, on someone else’s front lawn that they aren’t supposed to be on, but they’re much too tired to care.

And they don’t break hands, not once.

Oikawa can barely believe it, actually. He and Iwaizumi have gone years and years without holding hands, and then twice in a couple of hours, here they are.

It makes his heart feel as soft and malleable as the snow that surrounds them, blanketing their bodies and combed through their hair like white halos.

It’s only minutes before Bokuto and Kuroo collapse down in the snow beside them, but to Oikawa – lying here, Iwaizumi’s fingers entwined in his – it feels like centuries.

“We won,” Iwaizumi tells the new arrivals matter-of-factly, despite the fact that both he and Oikawa would both be too exhausted to do anything about it if Bokuto or Kuroo hit them in a surprise attack right now.

Oikawa nods, and then winces as the snow wriggles down the back of his neck. “You’re my favourite team mate, Iwa-chan.” It’s not a lie. It’s just, it’s not the full truth, either. Iwaizumi’s not just Oikawa’s favourite team mate, right now he’s also his favourite _person_ , full stop.

Iwaizumi rolls onto his side to face him. “I’m your _only_ team mate, Crappykawa.” He looks down at himself. “And my shirt is ruined. Shit. It must have ripped when I fell.” It’s true- the shirt is torn across as easily as if it were time, mud splattered at its hem like sloppy paint work.

Bokuto looks at Kuroo and then Kuroo looks at Bokuto and they go on like this for a couple of minutes before Oikawa asks them to stop giggling like buffoons and spit it out.

“It’s just,” says Bokuto, “I have a spare shirt that I keep just for occasions like this one.”

Kuroo nods authoritatively. “The height of fashion.”

“It’s meant to be a joke to offer to people at parties after I accidentally-on-purpose spill my drink on them… But, you know, if you’re in need of a shirt then you may as well wear it…” He gets up with a groan and stomps down the road to the Tetsuro house, where he rummages in a bag left by the entrance way.

Kuroo grins widely at Iwaizumi. “Honestly, apparently this shirt once appeared on the cover of Vogue. It’s haute couture. One of a kind. Bokuto could sell it for millions.”

Oikawa arches an eyebrow. Somehow, he really doesn’t believe a word that Kuroo is saying.

-

When Bokuto presents Iwaizumi with the shirt (“I got it for my sister’s birthday present but she told me she wouldn’t been seen dead in it”), Oikawa knows that he was absolutely 100% right to be suspicious. The shirt is probably at least two sizes small for Iwaizumi, pink, frilly, and with the words ‘Kiss the Cook’ scrawled across in lime green comic sans.

It is a monstrosity, to say the least.

Iwaizumi scowls at Bokuto. “I hate you.”

“Not really though. You love me really.” He pulls the puppy-dog eyes face at Iwaizumi. “I’ll let you call me bro if you wear it? No one’s ever agreed to try it on before, and I spent my own money on that.”

Kuroo shrugs at Iwaizumi. “You know, he’ll go in a mood if you don’t wear it- now that he’s walked all the way back to my house and back to get it for you, and everything.”

Oikawa smiles in what he hopes seems somewhat supportive, and not as if he’s about to burst into fits of laughter. “Um… I think garish pink will really be your colour, Iwa-chan…”

 Iwaizumi hits him, and the laugh bubbles out before he can stop it. “Piss off, Trashykawa.”

“And miss seeing you try on that shirt? Never!” declares Oikawa- and what he expects is for Iwaizumi to hit him again, or throw snow, or at least call him a stupid name- but then Iwaizumi’s reaching round and pulling his shirt off by the back of the collar, his chest and torso on full display.

Oikawa knows he’s seen this before- hundreds and hundreds of times, whenever they get changed for volleyball- but somehow he doesn’t think he’s ever truly _appreciated_ Iwaizumi quite like this. His muscles are clear and taut beneath his skin, which glistens slightly wet from snow and sweat. His whole form is... It’s goddamn majestic, the way he’s standing right now. And-

Oikawa forces himself to look away. This… Isn’t right. He’s objectifying his best friend. _Shit_. He is pretty damn sure that this does not come under the list of things acceptable for heterosexual friends, and yet _, shit_ , it’s exactly what he’s doing.

And if Oikawa had never invited Iwaizumi to be his fake-date, maybe he’d never been thinking like this.

He looks back at the sound of Bokuto creased in spluttering laughter, Kuroo leaning on his back for support. The shirt is too tight for Iwaizumi, his muscles far too clearly prominent beneath the cloth. Also, he looks ridiculous. He didn’t even have to try the thing on for anyone who’d ever seen him to know that pink and frills do not work wonders for Iwaizumi.

“You’re almost as pretty as me now, Iwa-chan,” sighs Oikawa, and despite the horrific shirt, he actually kind of means it. To him, Iwaizumi is beautiful. Iwaizumi is _always_  beautiful, especially when he’s leaning down and the shirt is stretched out against his back, and when he’s extending his arm with something flying from his fist and-

For the second time today, Oikawa eats a mouth full of snow.

“Iwa- _chan_! So cruel!”


End file.
